& the children will grow alone by Mel Bosworth
She farted on the dog’s head. 
The dog panted, stupid.
Then it painted, panting.
The fart was warm.
It called itself “Fart Fart.”
He counted clocks: HE, the clock counter.
The dog said “Rembrandt” but it was more like Picasso.
Sparrows smashed through glass into the room.
Then they went up the chimney flue.
Black bullets dusting the anuses of white clouds, clapping wings, sphincters.
Fart Fart put on a coat, burrowed beneath the couch cushions.
She asked what time it was.
“Not how this works,” said HE.
She said it was her birthday once.
Then she stripped to her skin & went down with Fart Fart.
HE: Nothing will finish.
She: No one will laugh.
The dog: Lunch?
Fart Fart: silent.
Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Western Massachusetts. Read more at his website, http://eddiesocko.blogspot.com/
© 2009, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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His words cuts into the marrow with precision. Once there, his words stirs at the biological imperative to seek more. And once there, the spiritual imperative has become touched fully and deeply until a true religion bekons by name.